


Dragon Heart

by Nefaria_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: AU, Augurey, Character Death, Dark Magic, Dark fic, F/M, Gen, Immortality, Mild Gore, Other, Potions, Prompt Fic, Sacrifice, Souls, Spells & Enchantments, horcrux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefaria_Black/pseuds/Nefaria_Black
Summary: "She was his precious child. She was Delphyne, after the lethal she-dragon that guarded the oracle. She was the guardian of his future. His precious child, yes, but not for the right reasons."One shot, written for several prompts. Warnings inside, heed them





	Dragon Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [龙之心](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252278) by [GinnySue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnySue/pseuds/GinnySue)



> I can't really be explicit with the warnings without spoiling this whole thing but... let's say mild gore, human sacrifice and character death all play a role in this. Proceed with caution

She was so happy. She was always happy in the mornings. Her wide dark eyes looked up to him, greeting him with all their wonder. All of her affection.

Lord Voldemort picked his child up from the crib. He hardly ever did so, but today was different. The little girl was the only one that would laugh being so close to him, the only one that liked being under the scrutiny of his red glare, the only one that dared reach for his face. She was the only one who was not afraid.

Secretly, in a buried part of him, he liked this child of his. He would never admit to it, for as far as he and his Inner Circle were concerned, this baby was a means to an end. The Augurey of his glory, the omen of his rise. He did like her, still, which was why his familiar and his child were never allowed to be together.

The piece of him that lived in Nagini was drawn to the child, and the girl had never been afraid of the mighty serpent. She couldn't talk yet, but she could understand them, him and his familiar. The dark, usually violent and bloodthirsty, serpent would be calm, almost tame, around her. Nagini liked to cuddle with the child, and the little girl liked the feeling of scales under her small chubby hands. They would even play, if left to their own devices. All of it forced a painful reality upon him, so he made them stop.

It wasn't just that they liked each other, it was that piece of his soul in the snake calling out to her, feeling warmer around her. It was that that wisp of humanity hurt him. He never thought he would be capable of something like love before, let alone now, with his soul shattered. But it turned out that these two pieces of his soul were capable of love. Of loving her. And it hurt.

So Nagini was barred from the nursery, and Delphini confined to it. And he hardly ever touched his child. For she was love, but she was also weakness.

Delphini. That was the name he had allowed his most faithful to believe she had chosen from the night sky. He hardly thought of her as Delphini. She was his precious child. She was Delphyne, after the lethal she-dragon that guarded the oracle. She was the guardian of his future. His precious child, yes, but not for the right reasons. A means to an end, he forced himself to think. His daughter, he always concluded. And, gods, it was painful. His daughter with Bellatrix. Her precious child, too. Her only link to sanity, he suspected.

Delphyne was his way to immortality. Still, he had delayed this step for as long as he could. For both their sakes. Were it not necessary, and he would have raised her to be a warrior, into a lieutenant so lethal the world would have no choice but to bow to their power, and his will.

The girl stirred in his arms, retrieving him from his reveries. She would never be his soldier, he decided. He couldn't wait that long. Delphyne pressed her small, perfect hands to his chest, digging into his black robes with her fingers, as she looked him in the eye once more. Then she tried to look past his shoulder, towards the door. She, too, could hear the mighty serpent beyond it. She, too, could understand its hissing, its calling. But he could not allow it.

He shook his head once, hissing "No," tenderly, when the little girl frowned. He moved to a large, comfortable armchair, and sat Delphyne on his knees. He had never spent time alone with her like this, but today was different.

He went to the nursery once a day, to check on his most precious possession, or so he told himself.

He went to the nursery to appraise the progress of his most dangerous weapon, he told his Inner Circle.

He smothered the real reason in a corner of his broken soul. It was too painful to bear.

The girl sat happily on his long legs for a few moments, taking in the sight of him as much as he took the sight of her in. Then she turned to the door again, craving the company of his familiar, wishing for that bit of her father to be with her, too.

The little hiss from her went past his mind, straight to whatever he had left of a heart. The sound meant nothing really; it was an attempt at a name. But the similarity between her Parseltongue versions of ‘Father’ and ‘Nagini’ was striking.

“No,” he hissed to her once more, while he moved his fingers and his hand in a swirl mid-air, creating a greenish mist in the shape of a small viper.

She laughed, pleased for a second. Then she frowned. That was not what she wanted, and she was not one to settle for compromise. She flashed her eyes at him, and he saw them turn from pools of darkness to ponds of gold with slit pupils.

“No,” he hissed again, harshly. Delphyne’s eyes turned black again and stared at him for what felt like hours. Once more, she turned to the door, reaching for it with her little hands. He almost expected a click and the door coming ajar, giving passage to Nagini.

Instead, it caught fire. The lock just burst into flames, quickly spreading to the wood. He stopped it, Vanishing the flames with a movement of his hand. She giggled. His soul truly hurt at that.

Her first display of magic. She wasn’t even one yet. But she was his and this was what she had been born to do, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him.

If this body of his had ever learned how to smile, he would. A sad smile, he supposed. This was confirmation. She was ready. He couldn’t wait any longer. Tonight was the new moon.

And for the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort felt the bitter taste of remorse.

What he was about to do was magic of the darkest kind. The wizard that had no qualm about killing, no qualm about watching his soldiers fall, was getting to know the true taste of remorse. And before the night was over, he suspected, he would learn the true meaning of sacrifice.

He got up, holding Delphyne in his arms. For the first time since the day she was born, he held her close to him, feeling the softness of her curls on his cheek. She allowed her head to find purchase against his chest, and he allowed his slits of a nose to burry in her hair.

He placed the little girl in her crib, creating more vaporous vipers out of thin air. She reached for them, chuckling as her hands traversed the misty snakes. Destroying them, and being happy for it.

Lord Voldemort left the room with quiet, long strides. He couldn’t look back. He wouldn’t. When he had enough distance between himself and the nursery, he lifted his wards on it.

“You can go in, Nagini,” he told his familiar, “you can stay with her, today.”

The serpent slid away as fast as she could. He didn’t blame her. He was perfectly aware of her allure. He would let his Horcrux feast on her presence, but he could not be near them. He needed a place to think, he needed distance from the pain. He started walking towards the doors of the Manor, he kept walking as he turned right just beyond the gates, and he was still walking when he came to a dark cliff by the sea.

 

o.o.O.o.o

 

The night had fallen, and Lord Voldemort walked back inside Malfoy Manor. The pain had returned the second he Apparated on the grounds.

Quietly, he made his path to his chambers. He found Bellatrix there, pacing, a deranged look in her eyes.

“Master,” she chanted to him, “tonight is the new moon…”

“Indeed, Bella, it is.”

“Will you do it tonight?” Her voice was equal parts broken and hopeful. Broken, for she knew what the ritual would take. Hopeful, for she knew what it would give in return.

This would drive Bellatrix over the edge, he knew. She would be absolutely ravenous, and he would let her feast on the suffering of his enemies, let her mourn with their screams, let her wash her tears with their blood.

His most faithful. Bella, who would fight anyone and everyone that dared come close to her child, to the child of her Master. Bella, who was so faithful that she would not fight him, not even tonight.

“You know why I’m doing this, Bella,” he had to keep her mind on the right track, aim her madness before it was too late.

“I do, Master. Your victory requires it,” her voice was but a whisper.

He could see her mind shatter, he could feel her agony. For the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort feared one of his followers. Bellatrix was a Mother. _The_ Mother to his daughter. If anything could break her, truly, this was it.

“I will win, Bella. I will conquer the world for her, because of her, and you will conquer it with me.”

Her soul sang with that, the mere allusion to her greatest hope causing her happiness. Still, she wrung her fingers. He planted a kiss on her forehead, listening to her content sigh, murmuring one spell after another. Her body crumbled to the floor. He prevented the impact and levitated her sleeping shape to his own bed.

She would be asleep in her chambers until dawn. She would not fight him, but that did not mean that she would not try and shield her daughter. He couldn’t have her stand between them. And he could not trust her broken mind tonight.

He walked swiftly to the nursery for the second time that day. He gathered all of his Occlumency barriers, cocooning his mind, shielding his soul. It still hurt.

It pinched in the corridor. It clawed at him once inside.

Nagini had slithered into the crib, and now lied coiled at its bottom. Delphyne was asleep on her scales, rocked by her breathing. The serpent stirred, feeling his presence, raising her regal head from next to the girl’s cheek. Her yellow eyes held a question that he did not wish to answer.

The Dark Lord levitated his daughter’s body, enveloping her in an amber bubble. Nagini hissed, menacingly. Even if he had shut her off his mind, she could still tell that something was wrong.

He left the nursery, Delphyne floating in her bubble behind him, bathed by golden light. Nagini uncoiled quickly and made to follow him, but he confined her to the nursery. It wasn’t that she would turn on him; it was simply that he could not focus if she was near.

Love was weakness, he had always known. What he had learned in these past few months was that love was also _his_ weakness. Tonight, he would both eliminate his weakness and fortify his soul.

He treaded his path to the dungeons and then beyond them. He had come to this chamber almost every night for months. Making sure everything was ready, checking again and again. He also wished, every night, in a hidden part of him, for something to be missing. He had hoped for it.

Lord Voldemort had, for the first time in his life, hoped for failure.

The book, a cursed ancient tome filled with forgotten runes, said the ritual would be even more powerful if the child had already displayed signs of magic. He had clung to that in the end.

Delphyne was much too young to show her powers, it would be at least another year. He didn’t have another year to end this war, but he could buy the time. He soon realized what and why he would be buying time for. Love. Weakness. He would never win the war, he would never rule unchallenged.

Then today, Delphyne proved him wrong. She was not too young. Today, Delphyne ripped the last hope she had of living with the very reason for her existence. Her magic.

Once in the chamber, he looked back over his shoulder. He regretted it immediately. Delphyne was awake now, laughing at the way the golden light from the bubble created shapes on her skin and streams of light between her fingers. He raised the barriers of his mind higher, isolating his soul further.

Soon, the laughing little girl found herself on a slab of stone. Obsidian. Black and glassy, created from fire, befitting the dragon-child. She sat up, looking at him inquisitively.

Lord Voldemort took one last look into the dark vastness of his daughter's eyes. He counted the stars in that tiny universe, naming all the shiny constellations in the glint of her eyes.

Then he pointed his wand at her forehead. The little girl smiled, unafraid. For the first time, and the last, he smiled back. And, gods of old, did it hurt! But he kept his pale wand up, and aimed once more.

" _Somnum_ ," he said, his voice clear, "sleep, my child." The latter was a sweet murmur, as sweet as a Parseltongue could be.

The Dark Arts may require a sacrifice of him, may require his dragon, but he would not gift them her suffering. He murmured spell after spell, ensuring that she was warm and comfortable. Ensuring that she would remain unconscious and free of pain while the darkest shadows of magic danced free in this room.

He would rid himself of this love, ridding himself of weakness along with it. Ascertaining his immortality in the process. It was a monstrous thing. This wasn't just another Horcrux. This was much darker, but also immeasurably more powerful. He wouldn’t be left with scars this time, though. Neither paler lines on his bony white body nor vicious markings in his mind, in the remnants of his soul.

This was the only way, he had told himself again and again. He had to purify himself in order to succeed. Love is weakness. The weak never win.

His daughter. His dragon. His omen.

The only way.

He looked to the simmering cauldron in the corner. It was a big, heavy thing. Angrily it boiled, as if telling him to use what was in it or have it gone forever. He summoned it closer to him, next to the obsidian altar.

He approached his daughter. He caressed her with his wand, not daring to touch her now. He kept his mind soundly locked away; he buried his soul deeper still. Dragon heart, the spell required. A very specific kind of dragon.

“ _Diffindo_ ,” he casted once, “ _Diffindo_ ,” he casted again and again, severing Delphyne’s ties to life, severing his ties to sanity with it.

This was the only way, he kept telling himself. He could not stop now, not on the brink of setting his dragon’s soul free. He had to capture it.

He reached for her heart with his pale hand, holding it with a tenderness he had never used in all seventy years of his life. He started the spell,

“ _Sanguis sanguinem meum, cor tuum mihi accipe, animam tuam et congregabis_.”

He carried it, reverently, watching the warm blood ooze from the still beating heart, flowing down his arm. He pointed his wand at it, over the cauldron.

“ _Draco corde, fortitudinem tuam et colligentes, melius est anima mea_.”

A dragon’s heart to fix his soul. The rarest dragon, of his own creation, made of the sheerest power and of the purest blood. The small heart had an eerie light to it now, a silver mist escaped from inside.

“ _Omen gloriae, ut infirmitatem meam, amoris expertes me.”_

He dropped the heart into the potion. His dragon-child would purify him with her dying breath. Delphyne’s soul would hold his soul together from now on, fortifying it. The silver mist remained on the surface, dancing in arabesques as the liquid boiled.

He repeated the spell, aiming his wand at the centre of the potion. It went from colourless to marine blue first, then a single white spot appeared in the middle, and started to bleed as he repeated the spell once more.

He watched the potion turn from deep red to ebon, as the silver mist spun faster and faster, becoming brighter. He casted the spell again, his ivory wand touching the brim of the cauldron, now. He watched as it suddenly came to a halt, congregating into a single, small, blindingly bright mass. A sphere of liquid mercury. Two more times he casted the spell. Then the sphere dropped into the darkness and exploded just beneath the surface, with all the murderous beauty of Fyendfire.

Lord Voldemort removed his clothes with measured elegance and climbed into the cauldron, letting his body be enveloped, as he casted the darkest spell his lips had ever spoken one last time. With the last word, he was completely submerged.

A mother’s love had defeated him, once. His love for his daughter, once sublimed, devoid of its inherent weakness, would see him victorious.

The potion started to spin around him. It should burn him, rip his skin from his bones, but instead it was welcomingly warm. The liquid fire burned and spun, for a long time, until it was deep blue once more, with dark shadows and bright sparks. Then, he could feel it starting to seep into him, under his skin, into his veins. All the love he had kept hidden was now flowing into him at once.

And it hurt. For long minutes, the Dark Lord was assaulted by excruciating waves of pain. He could feel remorse now. He could mourn his child now. He had sacrificed his most precious possession to his cause, and it was a monstrous thing. A monstrous thing that he had killed her. A monstrous thing that he could think of her as his possession.

For the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort regretted his ambition, hated his power.

The pain kept coming and coming. A wave for her dark wide eyes. A wave for her soft pale skin. A wave for her wispy ebony curls. A wave for the smell of caramel at the back of her neck. A wave for the perfection of her small hands. A wave for the feeling of her heart beating in his hand. A wave for her giggles. A wave for her wondrous smile. He would scream if he could. He would scream his very soul out of his body to appease the pain, to bring her back.

For the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort wished he was dead. Instead of her.

 

o.o.O.o.o

 

He rose from the now empty cauldron. There was something new in his veins. Power. Immense power. He donned his robes again and walked to the obsidian slab where he had slayed his dragon. His daughter.

He stood there, studying her little, unmoving body. He could touch her, now. And it did not hurt.

It felt like nothing. Like all things felt before she was born.

**Author's Note:**

> The spell is Latin (I hope) and translates to “Blood of my blood, your heart I take, your soul I harvest. Heart of the dragon, your strength I gather, mend my soul. Omen of glory, take my weakness, devoid me of love.”  
> Don't go without a review, please  
> Prompts and Challenges  
> Assignment #9: Religious Education Task 3 Fasting - Write about sacrificing something  
> 365 Prompts Challenge: 358 Word – Precious  
> April House Challenge: Plot Point – First instance of accidental magic


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